to think that your first hard grip on my wrist wouldn't be the last
to think that i don't know what love should taste like
to think that your yells were out of care
to think that my hurt felt like home.
my home was hurt because you supplied it
your voice brought me back down to the earth
the bitter taste at the tip of my tongue was a gift from you
your hands a reminder of where exactly I belonged
I saw your eyes for the first time in a year
and for once my heart did not stutter
yet I returned home and washed the sheets
merely to rid myself of clutter.
you are seventeen and he is younger but so much bigger. you feel like a doll in his palm. you are unaware that his hands between your legs is a contract. He lays you down on your back, and you turn your heard to the TV. Moana is playing.
2. he pulls you to his chest and you whisper, "promise me I won't regret it." he smiles and kisses your forehead. the next day, he tells you he doesn't know if he loves you or not. you regret it.
3. you are almost asleep and his hands keep wandering. you close your eyes tighter. you wish you were dead.
4. he tells you that you don't have to do it if you don't want to, but you know that it's the only way to keep him from leaving. Afterwards, he wipes the tears from your chin and holds you close to his heart, so gentle and soft. you almost feel at home.
5. he leaves. You have to begin picking up the pieces somewhere but you never really find out where to start. a year passes. It has been twelve months of rain but the sun begins to peak out behind its curtain of clouds. you rest.
four stories about it and one about after.
i feel quite insignificant
like a small, frail, broken-winged bird
cradled in the hand of a man who does not know I am fragile
i am made of glass and ribbons which bind my feet to this wretched earth
they are chains around my beaten ankles
my sin is the floor beneath where I stand.
my wings were once whole, beautiful, unbroken things
but he held them too tightly
they crumbled in his hands
I can wash my bedsheets a thousand times and yet this bed is no longer ******* mine
i can't write anymore.
i go fishing for words in a dried up lake
and lose the thoughts at the sight of you.
you envelop even the empty spaces, of course
when i can't write i think of you.
i think it's because I know it will never be as beautiful.
this will be my downfall
the thunder in my head
has struck the trees
and the leaves
fall to the ground
from its quake.
it disrupts every
******* aspect of my
life. my spine
shakes at your power,
my shoulders slump
at your warmth. your
hands have stripped every part of my
identity. you rebuild
me again. I cannot
write because your eyes
don't allow me.
your lips are
my prison and my liberation
your hand around my throat is your claim and my closure
i know you never wanted to posses my and my ***** soul
but truly i am nothing without your tightening grip
just a pet to your words your voice your body
it is all I am.
I cannot write for I am no long a being.
Just the creation of a God.
just a babydoll who listens
a girl who obeys
a child with closed eyes
is this love
or is this rebirth
im a little ****** up over this
i did not know the breath in my lungs would stop
i guess the funny part is i kind of like the burn
i like the self destruction
the pain and the wounds
i never realized the poison that seeps from my skin would get to me too
you see god had made me pure
but i dipped my hands into the liquor of the devil
and for that i had to endure
six years of pain, twelve more of self infliction
i never realized it was an addiction
my lungs are so ******* empty
they inhale the toxins of my past mistakes
the love and passion and trust i dropped in the mud
i inhale purity (not mine of course)
i exhale poison (it stems from my core)
i am poison
i have poisoned you
but don't worry
it'll always get to me first